


Don't Sleep

by methylviolet10b



Series: Emergency Contact Number [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Injury, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a continuation of the other stories in this series. If you haven't read them, you might not want to read this. And like all the stories in this series, this is a promptfill fic. This story is in response to the following prompt: Petula Clark. In addition, this story contains references to major injuries, surgery, and supernatural elements. If those elements aren't your cup of tea, this might not be the story for you.

John shivered and shifted his feet, trying to stay warm. His jacket was usually so good at keeping him toasty no matter what the weather, but it wasn’t doing the job tonight. He wished the tube would just come already. Surely it would be warmer once he got inside the passenger car.

He leaned over the platform and looked down the tunnel. No sign of the train. The breeze from the pitch-black opening was icy, even worse than the air in the deserted tube stop. John stepped back from the edge and tucked his hands deeper into his pockets.

Odd, that this station was so deserted, so cold. There wasn’t a single other person in sight. Granted, it wasn’t the most pleasant of places. The tile was dull with grime and wear. The garish colours of various advertising posters – strangely difficult to read, how stupid – could not cheer up the bleakly functional, utilitarian nature of the place. But you didn’t come to a tube stop to be entertained by the architecture or amused by the adverts; you came because you needed to travel.

Was he the only person travelling tonight?

What time was it, anyway? It must be late. Very late.

He could hear the sound of the lights buzzing, the rustle of his jacket and denims, the squeak of his trainers against the tile when he shifted his feet. But nothing else, no sound of an approaching tube, no sounds of other people –

Wait.

If he strained his ears, he could just make out the sound of other voices; unknown, echoey, very far away. Coming down the stairs to the station, perhaps? John looked around, but could see no one on the bit of the stairwell visible from the platform.

The voices sounded again: short, clipped phrases, not an actual conversation as others might recognize it. But to John’s surgeon-trained ears, the few words spoke volumes. He’d issued exactly those commands himself, received the same terse replies from his assistants and fellow medics. _Major surgery,_ his brain translated. _Full trauma team. Hm. Not going very well, either._ He recognized it not from the words themselves, but from how they were said, the cadence of the commands. He knew the sounds of a surgical team waging a frantic war with death, knew them in his bones and blood. Knew that utter concentration when the margins between victory or defeat were as narrow as a scalpel’s edge, as intangible as an individual’s will.

“Keep at it,” he muttered under his breath. “Come on, you’ve got to get those bleeders under control. You can do it. Don’t worry about pretty, just get it done.”

He scowled, hearing his own voice sound dully in the expanse of the empty station, utterly flat compared to those other, faint sounds. How was he hearing this, anyway? That should be impossible. Was there some kind of unsealed ventilation shaft between the hospital and the tube station? A crack? What a nightmare for sterilization, either way. Small wonder MRSA was epidemic if there were leaks in the surgery suites.

He strained his ears again, but the voices were gone. John blinked his eyes, suddenly aware of how very tired he was. Tired enough to hear things? Aural hallucinations brought on by fatigue? That had happened to him a few times in Afghanistan, and once when working an exhausting case with Sherlock. Sherlock had wanted to experiment on him further, of course, but John had flatly refused even in the face of the threat of epic sulking.

Is that why Sherlock wasn’t with him? Usually if he found himself in some strange deserted tube station or any other weird situation, freezing his bollocks off (or roasting, or getting soaked, or otherwise notably uncomfortable), it was with Sherlock by his side, working some case. But Sherlock wasn’t here. Had he been working late at the surgery? Was Sherlock off on his own, or waiting back at the flat?

This didn’t make sense. John’s clinic didn’t have late hours. And this definitely wasn’t the tube station nearest the clinic.

What tube station was this?

Something wasn’t right.

A blast of even-more-frigid air emerged from the tunnel, the kind of pressure wave you got from an approaching tube, but cold instead of warm. John glanced down the dark expanse. There was a glimmer of light in the distance, wavering dimly, more like an evening star than the lamp on a train. It didn’t seem to be approaching very quickly, like a tube would normally. Was there something wrong on the line, or with the train?

Looking at the light made John dizzy. Once again he was reminded of how tired he was. He was absolutely, utterly exhausted. It would be easy to just wait for the tube, however long it took to get to the platform. It didn’t really matter what line it was. John could always find his way home after he got on board, figure out what stop to take, where to change trains. And he could rest, maybe warm up a bit.

But something wasn’t right. John was almost sure of that now. He glanced towards the stairs, then at the light in the tunnel, slightly brighter now, then towards the stairs again.

Chances were excellent that there were an awful lot of stairs. And he didn’t see a lift or moving stairway.

He thought about it a moment, then heaved a sigh. “Stupid git,” he grumbled to himself as he stepped away from the platform. “Always taking the hard way.” Still, maybe he could find a cab once he reached the street. And the fresh air might help wake him up a little, help shake off some of his lethargy.

John started up the steps.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August 10, 2011


End file.
